


It Will Come Back

by author_morgan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: F/M, give this emo child some love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22996099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: You pluck an arrow from his back and he turns around like Eros and shoots you right in the heart
Relationships: Alexios (Assassin's Creed)/Reader, Deimos (Assassin’s Creed)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 153





	It Will Come Back

SPARTAN AND ATHENIAN dead litter the shores of Amphipolis –a feast for crows. Though among the dead few are luckily have clung to life. A wave of healers and physicians from both sides descend to collect those injured and those who had already taken the journey across the Styx with Charon.

You bear the mark of Athena –a servant of Athens. Combing the field of battle, you look for soldiers who wear the blue color of Athens. The first man you turn over is dead – his throat slashed and entrails exposed. Another is barely alive, having lost his hand and sustained a long and jagged gash on his calf. Shock will set in soon if he is not tended to. You hold up the silver medallion fastened around your neck –it glints in the sun and soon after two men come forward with a crude stretcher to take the soldier to the infirmary tent.

The next is beyond saving –his right eye is bulging from its socket, a minor grievance in comparison to the shattered back of his skull. He cannot speak, but his delirious eyes say it all. _End this. I beg you_. You’d never enjoyed this part of your duty. It didn’t feel right for a healer to take life –regardless, you draw the dagger from the sheath on your belt and position the tip of the blade next to his larynx. Pushing down with your weight, the dagger sinks into flesh and then you pull the cutting edge toward you. It’s a clean-cut that will grant the soldier peace before he can take another labored breath.

Rising, you find yourself drawn to a man that does not wear the colors of Sparta or Athens. _A misthios_ , you think to yourself, but as you draw nearer you see his gold and dark steel armor is too fine to belong to a mercenary. A single arrow shaft rises from the center of his back. Kneeling, you push aside the matted locks of dark brown hair adorned with golden beads that’d fallen in front of his face. Against your hand, you can feel slow puffs of air and a pulse beneath your fingertips. He is still alive. You raise your medallion again.

Two soldiers come, though when they see who you are kneeling next to, their faces take on a deathly pallor and fear shins in their eyes. “Take him to my tent,” you instruct. If everyone is as fearful of this man as those two soldiers, no one will wish to tend to his wounds.

By the time the sun has set, those who stand a chance of surviving are within the infirmary pavilion and those who were dead or received final mercy are piled atop quickly constructed pyres. They will be sent off with Charon’s obol as honorable dead.

You draw the flaps of your small pavilion close and untie the leather belt hanging on your hips, letting it fall onto a small table next to a clay washbasin. Scrubbing your hands of the day’s work, you forget about the patient now residing in your quarters until you turn to your bedroll –which is half occupied at the moment. Small lanterns chase away the darkness.

The arrow had pierced the metal and leather cuirass and a gentle pull on the now broken shaft tells you it had sunk into flesh too. Frowning, you prod around the entry point –failing to see how to remove his armor without inflicting more damage. You reach back, fingers curling around the hilt of your dagger and slowly you start to whittle down the olive wood shaft. White _pteruges_ are now stained with dried blood and mud –you set them aside and find the fastenings of the cuirass. Once the ties and hooks are free, you lift the back-plate and the tapered arrow shaft passes through with ease.

Scars crisscross his corded back, though for now, your focus returns to the arrow just to the left of his spine. The barbs had not caught on flesh, nor does it appear laced with poison and for that you are thankful. You ready your supplies –clean linen, a freshly ground poultice of thyme, sage, clove, and garlic, and a needle with silk thread should the wound need stitching.

You test the shaft’s hold on the arrowhead, finding the hide glue had not loosened. Part of you thinks it will be easier to remove the arrow with one quick go, but the strength of his physique leads you to use a more delicate approach. You’d almost had your fingers broken by an archer who’d abruptly woke in the middle of being treated. The man laying facedown before you looks as though he could easily break a lot more than a finger.

Fresh blood wells up after the arrow comes free. You douse the area with a mix of water and vinegar before patting the wound dry. It will not need sutures, just a fresh bandage to cover the poultice. It takes forbearance to finish stripping him of his armor and bind the wound with a long strip of clean linen. He is heavy –fitting for his Herculean build. His features are sharp and handsome, though dark circles ring his eyes. Even at rest he looks tormented. Much like his back, his torso is bestrewn with scars –some longer and wider than others.

Knowing you do not have the strength to move him again after a long day, you gather your blanket and lay on the small part of the bedroll still free. Sleep comes easily.

By morning, Deimos is awake –the muscles in his back screaming in agony as he shifts. His armor is gone, save for his greaves, piled up beneath a low table. A bloody basin of water sits on the ground, in it is an arrowhead and broken shaft. White linen is wrapped around his torso. “You’re awake!” You exclaim, readying for your duties.

“Who are you?” He rasps. It feels like a dangerous thing to do, but you give him your name. “My sister,” he spits, “where is she?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him. He can tell you are being truthful. You know nothing about Kassandra and from the look of it, you know nothing about him either. "I found you after the battle,” you tell him, “you’d been hit in the back with an arrow.” That explains the dull throbbing in his back.

"Need to go,” he mutters, turning to reach of his armor.

“No,” you say –the boldness of your voice catches you off guard. The man glowers at you. “You’re my patient. You can’t leave until I clear you.”

Deimos sizes you up. “You’re going to stop me?” He asks, mirth lacing the question. He has the blood of gods in his veins, and you are insignificant. Breaking you wouldn’t even be a challenge.

Sighing you shake your head. You can’t stop him. It’s likely no one in the entire camp could. “At least allow me to clean the wound and bind it again.” Deimos grunts in response and sits in place while you prepare a new poultice and gather fresh bandages. His arms are thick with muscle, hands rough and scarred. He watches you with his dark gaze, unused to being shown kindness. You spread the salve over the scab and move back in front of him to tie off the new bandage. His muscles contract when your fingers brush against his stomach –it’s like Phidias had sculpted him from Parian marble. "Who are you?”

“Deimos,” he answers, watching the shred of fear blossom in your eyes. He smirks. “Ah, you’ve heard of me.”

You no longer meet his gaze, instead, you wipe your hands clean in your apron. “I heard he was demigod,” you mutter, handing him the gold and steel armor. _Demigods are not felled by a single arrow, though_. Deimos may fight like a demigod, but he still mortal –a tortured soul.

“I am,” he says with surety, rising to leave. He would not speak his gratitude aloud, but he can repay this simple kindness by making sure the Cult never harmed you.

* * *

PILES OF HERBS lay before you –waiting to be bundled and taken to Zina, the apothecary. One of the local villages had been experiencing issues with recurring fever, and Zina cannot spare the time to collect her supplies at the moment. You’re so focused on the task at hand, you don’t hear the iron-shod footsteps approaching from behind until someone’s hand settles on your shoulder and holds a stalk of tufted vetch before you. “Deimos!” You gasp, clutching your chest as though it can slow the frantic beating of your heart.

Deimos lips tug upward into a faint smile. The dark circles that’d once ringed his eyes are fading. “Alexios,” he supplements. He intends to move forward and leave his life under the Cult’s control in the past, though since reuniting with his family on Mount Taygetos he’s often thought of the healer at Amphipolis who did not show fear, even when the Athenian soldiers cowered in his wake.

Taking the stalk of vetch, you smile and inhale the slightly sweet scent. “What are you doing here?” You ask, you never expected to see him again –part of you wished you wouldn’t given his reputation, but now his handsome face is a pleasant sight compared to the sick and dying. “How did you find me?” You pose before he can even respond to your first question. You’re a long way from Amphipolis.

“I never said thank you,” he breathes, reaching for one of your hands. Besides being thrown off a mountain as a baby, it’s the closest he’s come to meeting Hades.

You shrug. “Many of those I treat, don’t,” you tell him. It was your duty to tend the wounded, not some feat of bravery worth poems or songs.

* * *

“HEALER!” SOMEONE CALLS. You turn, seeing an Amazonian woman running toward you with someone slung over her shoulder. As she draws nearer, you notice an eerie resemblance to a certain demigod that’d been occupying your thoughts frequently as of late. “Can you help my brother?” The woman asks, panting. Blood runs down her arm and neck –it’s not hers, though.

You nod, grip tightening on the woven basket filled with herbs, grain and fruit. “Follow me.” The Orchomenos clinic just below the Temple of Apollo is your home at the moment –and where you lead the woman and her brother. She lays him on the table in your quarters and steps back. “Alexios,” you gasp. There’s a deep gash on his side almost the length of your forearm. He groans when his sister starts unclasping the torn leather cuirass while you prepare a needle and thread and gather rags and bandages.

Her name is Kassandra and she watches your every move as you begin cleaning the wound. It still bleeds, but barely –it won’t need to be burned. The hooked needle passes through his skin with ease, each time pulling the gash closed. “What happened?” You ask, pulling on the silk thread when it catches.

“Boar,” she responds. Since training under Hippokrates, you’ve seen your fair share of injuries caused by boars –most are not so lucky and bleed out before receiving proper treatment, or succumb to infection. The wound is no doubt grievous, but in your experience, it could be a lot worse. The line of sutures are neatly done, having used almost an entire spool of thread.

The salve you craft is made of softened beeswax, ironwort tea, and frankincense for inflammation. You dip your hand into the mixture and spread it across the stitches –his entire side has already begun shifting to deep hues of blue and purple. Kassandra helps you wind a thick layer of linen around his torso –it will help with the bruising and keep the sutures clean– before moving him to the corner of the room where a pallet of pillows and blankets are messily arranged.

She is worried about her brother. “He’ll be alright,” you assure her –wiping down the table, “he just needs time to rest.”

Kassandra sits across from you at the table after cleaning Alexios’ blood from her neck and arms –she nurses a cup of watered wine. “He mentions you a lot,” she tells you and that catches you off guard. Since Amphipolis, he’s managed to find you on several occasions. He never stays more than a day at a time, but it was always a pleasant surprise to have company –especially when it’s. She glances over her shoulder toward Alexios. “You’ve made quite the impression on him.”

When her gaze returns to you, there’s a fleeting smile on your lips. _You should see her when she smiles, sister_. “I found him after Amphipolis.” Sometimes you still wake in a cold sweat, remembering the carnage –the brutality of war. It was not some glorious thing like the singers and poets claimed. “He said his name was Deimos. The men were terrified of him.”

“He was a weapon for the Cult of Kosmos,” she explains and her expression twists into one of anger. “Alexios is the name our _mater_ gave him.” The sun will be setting soon, and she needs to return to the _Adrestia_. She and Alexios had been en route to the ship after receiving word about important business on Mykonos when the pack of boar attacked them. Kassandra rises. “I leave my brother in your capable hands.”

Sometime during the night, he wakes. A gentle weight is resting on his chest –your hand is splayed out on the small area not covered by linen. In the dim light, he makes out your features, completely at ease. Alexios braces his arms, intent on pushing himself up, but the hand on his chest stiffens and forces him back down. “Don’t,” you mumble, groggy and barely awake.

“Where’s Kassandra?” He asks in a hoarse whisper.

“Returned to her ship,” you answer, “said she’d be back soon. Business on Mykonos.”

Alexios rolls his eyes. _Business_ , he scoffs. Kyra is what his sister meant by that. He settles back in, covering your hand with his own. “Fucking pig came out of nowhere,” he remarks with a dry laugh. A smile tugs at your lips, you cannot deny it is a nice change to have company –the warmth of another person next to you.

* * *

YOU LEAVE EARLY in the morning for the market with a mental list of herbs and flowers to purchase for the clinic. The sun is blazing by midday when you return. Pylenor is tending to a new patient, though when you arrive the physician pulls you asides –asking if you could deliver a fresh batch of tonic and salves to Zosimos in Lebadeia.

Behind your quarters comes the rhythmic sound of wood splitting. You drop off the basket and round the corner of the stone building. Alexios lifts the axe above his head and brings it down in a fluid motion, splitting a piece of wood in two with ease. Sweat beads on his brow and the off-white _chiton_ clings to his chest and back. Perhaps if not for the wound on his side, you would have enjoyed the sight a moment longer. “Alexios!” He looks in your direction and immediately knows he’s in for a scolding –after all, it’d only been three days since he’d been gored and stitched up. “You shouldn’t be doing that yet,” you chide.

“I’m fine,” he says and proves his point by showing you the line of stitches –still as neat and undamaged. When you tell Alexios about needing to run an errand to Lebadeia, he offers to come with you. Trypho lends you and the _misthios_ a horse to complete the delivery –it’s quicker and safer than traveling on foot.

On the way back, you stop for a quick reprieve, letting the horse rest and drink from a pool of water fed by a small waterfall that flowed to Lake Kopais. Today had been exceptionally warm, and now that the sun is dipping lower in the sky the dried sheen of sweat on your skins becomes tacky. You strip off your _peplos_ and apron, sinking into the cool water in nothing but a sweat-stained _apodesmos_ and _perizoma_. Alexios follows suit, leaving his tunic and sword on the banks –you’d taken his armor to the tanner to be repaired.

He circles you, as a predator does its prey –it sends a cold chill down your spine and warmth to your insides. You step into his path, both hands pressing against his chest. Beneath your palms are numerous scars and ever since you first saw them, you’ve wanted to know more. Your hands slide across his pectorals and up a pale brown scar that runs parallel to his right clavicle. He tells you it’s from when he was a child –he’d stumbled into a wolf den in the forests of Argos. “And this one?” You ask.

He looks down at the raised vertical scar on his left breast. It’s not from a recent injury as portions of it have begun fading. “Don’t remember,” he replies, in earnest. It was easy to forget the stories behind minor injuries when they were so numerous.

“What about this?” One of your fingertips follows the raised scar that crosses over his navel. Something stirs in him and a spark turns his dark eyes to burning amber.

“Training recruits,” he tells you.

“This one?” You inquire, following the crooked line from his uninjured side up to his ribs. 

“Arena in Pephka.” His voice drops and is noticeably rougher. Alexios presses your hand flat to his chest and steps closer –his heart is thudding beneath your palm. You feel a lump form in your throat when his thumb traces over your lips but it quickly fades when he settles his lips against yours.

The hand on his chest slips up to his neck and you press yourself closer to him. You’ve always wondered what I would be like to have the love of a god –this is the closest you’ll ever get to fulfill that curiosity. One of his hands finds your lower back, the other brushes against your cheek. It’s difficult to think this is the same man who was once Deimos –a weapon. His lips are soft, hands gentle. You both pull back at the same time, but then his lips are on your neck, laving, and suckling –the coarse stubble on his jaw dragging across your skin. “Alexios,” you gasp, tugging at the ends of his hair.

He finds the pin holding your _apodesmos_ in place and opens it with one hand, tugging on the soaked material covering your breasts and then his lips are on yours again. Ravenous and needy. Without looking, he throws the strip of wool toward the edge of the pool and glides his calloused hands over your bare breasts, lightly kneading one of your nipples until it stiffens beneath his palm. You know what lies along this path and no matter how much you want him, you step back –breathing heavily. “You could tear the stitches,” you warn. Torn stitches will only hinder him from healing properly.

Alexios wades back to you, pressing his face against your neck. “Then we’ll take things slow,” he proposes, voice a heady gravel. You mold into him –like wet clay in the hands of a skilled potter. His hands dip below the water, untying the _perizoma_ around your hips –it finds a place next to your other garments. Rough fingertips trail the length of your body and find a resting place between your thighs. “Tell me what you want,” he rasps.

“I want _you_ ,” you whisper, hand resting on his cheek. You’re not one to plead, not even for the love of a demigod, but there’s a first time for everything. Alexios catches the spark that appears in your eyes and smirks –thinking about what’s to come when his side is healed. One finger slides into you, stroking and exploring. He adds a second finger and watches the shift in your expression. You grip onto his shoulder, head falling back with a soft whine when his thumb presses against your clit. His cock twitches as a pitiful pule escapes your lips. 

His lips drag across your jaw. A precipice is fast approaching, evident in the way you’re breathing hitches and how your walls constrict around his fingers. Alexios wants to watch you come undone whilst he’s inside you. You whimper at the loss. Though when you notice him fumbling at the knot in his loincloth, your hands slip beneath the water and gently pushing his away. He takes your swollen lips again –kissing you may very well be one of his new favorite things, even more so than annoying his sister and step-brother.

He groans and bites down on your shoulder when you take him into your hand and give a tentative stroke from base to head. His cock is just as impressive as the rest of him. It takes all his willpower to pull your hand away, but then he is lifting you from the water. He groans again when your slick folds slide over him, ankles hooking low around his back. You want to protest –thinking of the stitches, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything lest the moment be lost.

He sits back on the bank in the tall grass with you astride his lap –hard length pressing against your stomach. You roll your hips forward and are rewarded with a ragged groan, but you can see it in his eyes –he likes being in control. A smile crosses your lips as you repeat the same action. It’s enough to drive him mad. The growl rising in his throat is feral –his fingers dig deep into your hips, a gentle reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of.

You shift onto your knees, raising your hips and reach between you, sliding the head of his cock through your heat before beginning to sink back down. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses as your warmth envelops him and his hands slide from your hips around to your backside, pushing you down until your hips meet. Your head falls forward, resting on his shoulder and for the moment, the world around you vanishes.

Alexios shifts and it brings you crashing back down –skin alight with his touch. You take his rugged face into your hands and kiss him, slowly, just as your hips begin to roll into his. He breaks away and dips his head low, teeth scraping over your breasts down to one of your nipples. His name falls from your lips like a sacred prayer.

He’s moving your hips how he sees fit and lifting his to meet yours. Your hands slip into his hair, ruining the small bun of matted locks tied up with a thin leather thong. Alexios bares his teeth when you tug on his hair, hip snapping up into yours. Brown eyes flecked with gold bore into your own.

The air leaves your lung when he abruptly turns, laying you on the soft woven grass. Alexios holds tight to one of your thighs as he ruts into you –face buried deep into your neck. Your fingertips dig into his shoulder blades, between scars. It’s a slight shift in your hips that causes breathy moans to flow from your lips each time his cock slides back into your heat, hitting the one spot that makes you feel like Aphrodite herself. He thrives off the wanton sounds. “Alexios,” you pant, toes curling and walls clenching around him.

He moves erratically, grunting between thrusts and continues to strike that spot deep inside you. All is lost when the rough pads of his fingers find your clit. Alexios raises his head and basks in the moment you come undone –mouth falling open, eyes slipping shut, heels pressing into his lower back. Your grip on his shoulders loosens and your hands slide down his back, finding the scar from when you’d met in Amphipolis.

Alexios breathes your name as though he speaks to a goddess and with several slow, deep thrusts he finds his end. He hovers above you, bracing most of his weight on his forearms. You trace over the wrinkles in his brow and push up on your elbows. The kiss is so soft, sweet, and slow it makes his heart ache and understand why Orpheus would follow Eurydice to the underground.

He rolls off to the side, and you weakly protest the loss and warmth running down your thighs. Then you are slipping effortlessly back into the role of his healer. You sit up, looking over the sutures in his side. None of them have torn, but several are trying to bleed again. Alexios rolls his eyes –he’s endured far worse than bloody stitches. He sits up –looking like both Ares and Adonis– and gathers his damp undergarment to clean both of you up.

You both lay back in the grass, legs intertwined and tracing obscure patterns over one another’s skin until darkness looms on the horizon. Alexios traces a line down your cheek when you prop your chin upon his chest. “We should head back,” you tell him, “these forests are treacherous at night.”

Night falls, and the main gates of Orchomenos come into view. Alexios stables the borrowed mount and drapes his arm over your shoulders as you both return to the clinic.

Days pass and Alexios takes up completing odd tasks for people around the city while you work with Pylenor tending to those who come sick and injured. Every morning you and Alexios break your fast on jams and bread and every evening you share a meal too. It frightens you to think about how accustomed to his presence you’ve become.

Finally one evening, you motion for him to sit for you to remove the sutures before the wound completely seals. A few days later you bring his leather cuirass back from the market, fully repaired by the tanner. You expect him to leave soon after, but he stays and each kiss and tender caress will make it even harder when he does rejoin Kassandra.

* * *

A GOLDEN EAGLE named Ikaros brings word that his sister has docked in Lokris and it just so happens that you have a delivery to take Marpsas in Alponos. By the day’s end, you find yourself standing on the docks of Opous with Alexios. Your fingertips ghost over his cheek, following the scar below his eye. “I’ve quite enjoyed having my own _misthios_ around,” you admit. He’d been with you now for more than a full lunar cycle. Between this time and his sporadic visits, you cannot deny the extreme fondness you hold for him. Given more time, it may blossom into something more. 

“Every _misthios_ needs a healer,” he remarks. During his time with Kassandra and Barnabas, he’s witnessed the damage pirates, bandits, and other mercenaries can do, especially when no one aboard the vessel is trained in medicine.

“I could come with you,” you offer –life at sea does sound like a fun adventure.

Alexios glances back at the _Adrestia_ and knows deep down that he cannot take you from your calling as a healer without condemning innocents to death, but he can always be a _misthios_ on land or sea. Besides Kassandra can look after herself. He takes one of your hands and kisses the center of your palm. “Or I could stay,” he whispers. Your lips part in surprise and Alexios sees it as a good excuse to crane down and place a soft, lingering kiss upon them. Against his lips, he can feel your smile. “Let’s go home,” he breathes.


End file.
